


Empty Quiver

by flitterflutterfly



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterflutterfly/pseuds/flitterflutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only after it had all blown over that they told him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Quiver

It wasn’t until after it had all blown over, until after Thor and Loki had gone back to Asgard and after Tony had begun the repairs of Stark Tower and Banner had disappeared to who knows where… it was only when Clint started wondering that they told him.

Or more specifically, that Natasha sat him down and pointedly put a bottle of whiskey in front of him and took all his weapons away. And she told him, with eyes that spoke of shared pain and understanding.

And yeah, had it been anyone else other than Nat, Clint would have punched them in the face for daring to show understanding. But he and Nat knew each other far too well for that.

Still, Phil had been  _his_  not hers. And he’d been Phil’s. And now… now Phil was dead.

Clint fell asleep on the dining room table, the bottle of whiskey sitting in smashed shards besides him, the liquid staining the wood and soaking his arms and his whole body shivering. If he woke up in his bed, he barely noticed.

SHIELD had given him and the rest of the Avengers a leave of absence, had refused even to let him come into work. With nothing to distract himself, Clint sat alone in his apartment on the outskirts of Manhattan and stared detached at his own hands. He knew death, he knew death intimately well, had always been able to move on past it, like any good assassin was trained for.

But he hadn’t been trained for aliens and gods and he’d thought he’d been trained for loosing those he cared about, but he’d never been trained for loosing the fucking love of his life and, Clint found, that made all the difference.

His phone rang dully in his ears, but Clint ignored it. He had enough canned food and dried goods to last him through an apocalypse and he made eating a routine because he knew that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t remember to.

Two days after he’d been told, Clint found one of Phil’s shirts in the bottom of his closet and picked it up with shaking fingers. He brought it to his face, only to turn his head away before he could smell if it still had Phil’s scent because he knew he was getting low, too low.

Still, he ended up wearing that shirt the next day, and the day after that and the day after that.

It was sentimentality that brought him looking through the digital archive of photos, flipping through pictures of them together. Sometimes Natasha was there, smiling in the background, and sometimes Tony was staring at them incredulously. Maria was caught in the back of one, talking to someone, presumably Fury, off the edge of the frame. His eyes traced her face, because it was easier than looking at Phil’s hand lightly touching his arm.

Light touches on the arms or shoulders were the closest they ever got to physical displays of affection at work, the farthest Clint would let Phil go. Phil understood, of course he did, but that didn’t stop him from stealing those touches at every possible opportunity.

Clint leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering those first few nights, when he’d become not just another SHIELD agent to Phil.

“ _You’ve got to call it, sir,_ ” he’d said. “ _Cause I’m starting to root for this guy_.”

A harsh intake of breath, alien to Clint’s ears until he realized it was his own and then he lifted his fingers to his cheeks and drew them back. He hadn’t cried since he was a child, young and idealistic as they took him away from his dead parents and threw him in the orphanage.

“Fuck,” Clint groaned, throwing the digital photo album away from him. He heard it crack against the floor and jerked as if to go see if it was broken. “Fuck,” he repeated, forcing himself to stay on the hard floor, leaned against the couch, wearing Phil’s forgotten tee like it could ever be enough.

He fell asleep there, sitting cross-legged with his head in his hands. When he woke up, his bones cracked in protest, his body still in the same position.

“You need to get ahold of yourself, Hawkeye,” Clint told himself, looking into the bathroom mirror and trying to see one of the heroes the media had started portraying him as.

But all he saw was dull, tired eyes and pale skin.

Clint wandered into the bedroom and ripped off Phil’s shirt. He held it for a moment, unwilling to just throw it away. Instead, he dropped it on the bed and picked up his phone.

 _13 new text messages_. The screen proclaimed.  _19 missed calls. 7 voicemail._

Clint huffed, shaking his head. He dropped the phone on the bed on top of Phil’s shirt and hit play to the voicemails, letting it run on speaker as he wandered around the small apartment, looking for food that he could swallow and keep down.

“ _Hey Clint_ ,” Tony’s voice came on. “ _Just wanted to invite you to drop by the tower some time. Steve and I were thinking of a little get together. Just some R &R, figured we might all need it_.” There was a pause, and then his voice came on softer. “ _And I wanted to say sorry, man. If I’d known… Pepper told me that, well… drop by anytime, okay? We’re a team now._ ”

Clint closed his eyes briefly. Sometimes, he thought, Tony Stark could surprise the hell out of you. He wondered what would come of those long looks he’d seen… wondered if Captain America would be the one to finally be able to hold together Iron Man’s fractures. He knew that Pepper had already given up on that, knew that they’d both realized they would ruin their friendship if they tried to keep going.

Not unlike him and Natasha.

The next message beeped on. “ _Clint_ ,” Dr. Selvig’s voice was soft. “ _I’m not sure why I called you, just, I thought maybe we could talk. If you wanted._ ” There was a deep breath, as if Erik was going to say more, and then the messaged ended abruptly.

Yeah, Clint thought. He leaned over the sink, muscles clenching. “What would you want to talk about, Doc?” he said aloud. “What would you do if I told you that that damned cube caused me to invade the organization that had given me a home, made me kill men I had fought besides, had me fucking incapacitated as my lover was stabbed by the man I was being forced to work for?”

“- _and Tony figured I might have better luck_ ,” Steve was saying from his phone. “ _So just, call us. We know, I know it’s hard loosing someone you_ -” there was a shuffle and then Tony’s voice came on again. “ _Dinner, seven fifteen at that new place in Brooklyn. We’ll be there, maybe you could fly by_.”

Clint looked at the clock on his wall. The message had been dated two days ago.

“ _Call me_ ,” Natasha said and then hung up.

The next message was blank, just breathing, and Clint wondered if any of the SHIELD agents were watching over Erik.

“ _You really should drop by_ ,” Tony said. “ _Fury’s got news for us_.” There was some amount of bitterness in his tone, definitely anger. Clint wondered if the world was ending again.

He wondered if it mattered, and then shook himself of that thought. If Phil were there, in his position, he’d keep going, keep working, keep helping.

“ _Clint_ ,” Natasha said, softly. Clint turned off the water and turned his ear to listen closer. “ _Budapest all over again, isn’t it?_ ”

Clint froze as a heavy knock sounded on his door. His phone beeped, signaling the end of the voice messages, but he ignored it and went instead to open for his guest.

Fury swept in, one eyes scanning the unnatural tidiness of his living room. “Agent Barton.”

“I thought it was Hawkeye now,” Clint said, closing the door tightly. He was shaking, small tremors that he knew from experience weren’t visible to an outside observer. But he knew they were there, he could feel them.

He was both infuriated and relieved that he’d left all of his daggers in the bedroom. Clint figured that he had a fighting chance against Fury and right now he wanted nothing more than to sink steel into his flesh.

Fury’s eye caught his as Clint turned. “You know,” he stated.

“Budapest,” Clint said and didn’t bother to explain. He figured Fury knew.

By the twitching of Fury’s lips, he did. “He’s awake and asking for you.”

Clint stalked past the director, well aware of the bareness of his chest and his ratty pants. He walked into his bedroom and didn’t even bother pulling the door closed between them as he suited up.

There was silence, and then Fury tried again. “It was necessary. Phil knew it. The team needed a push-”

“The team did,” Clint jerked on his gloves, smoothing down his vest blindly. Fury wasn’t apologizing and they both knew it. “Where is he?”

“Base Five,” Fury stated.

Clint paused back in the living room, trying to control his anger. Base Five was barely a thirty minute drive from his apartment.

Phil had been that close this whole time.

“Why?” Clint asked. “It’s been days.”

Fury said nothing and Clint snapped, jerking around to push the director against the wall, slamming him there harshly. “ _Why_?”

“The announcement that he died wasn’t on a secure line. The doctors needed time before they could say they’d made a mistake. Coulson’s been in intensive since the carrier landed.”

“But he woke up,” Clint stepped back.

“Last night,” Fury said.

It hurt, it still hurt to know that even if Phil hadn’t, he’d been there, Clint could have been holding his hand before he finally slipped away and he wasn’t on a need-to-know basis. “I pity the person who falls for you, Director,” Clint spat, and stalked out of his house to the waiting car.

Half an hour later, Clint stood outside the room, watching the rise and fall of Phil’s chest. He was hooked up to all sort of wires, the heart monitor next to him beeping steadily. His eyes were closed.

Clint stepped into the room and up to the bedside. He sat in the single chair and slowly slipped his hands around Phil’s limp one. He was warm and Clint shivered, so very aware at how precious that small pulse was.

“I love you,” Clint whispered, and how fucking stupid was it that those three little words didn’t say enough. “God, Phil, I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“You too,” Phil croaked. His head shifted and his eyes opened slightly. “You’re back. They told me, but…”

“I’m sorry,” Clint slipped out of the chair to kneel closer to Phil’s side. His hands tightened on Phil’s own. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t,” Phil said. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, Clint.”

Clint closed his mouth and nodded, knowing better than to argue. Instead he leaned forward and softly kissed Phil’s lips. When he pulled back, Phil’s eyes were wide. “We’re at a SHIELD-” he began.

“I don’t care,” Clint said. “I don’t fucking care at all what they think.”

Phil froze, and then slowly a smile came over his face. “Neither do I,” he agreed. “Come here.”

Clint obliged, curling up around his love, careful not to pull the cords or strain Phil’s injury as he soft kissed his neck and cheeks and lips until Phil had fallen back asleep, still recuperating. For a moment, Clint just lay there, tracing the lines of Phil’s face, and then he closed his eyes and joined him.


End file.
